


he wants to fly (he's not a bird)

by sweetlyinfinite



Series: things i deserted [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, F/M, Jealous Louis, M/M, Unfinished, i forgot about that actually, louis works at the chemist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlyinfinite/pseuds/sweetlyinfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s a pressing urge in the pit of his belly, aching, quaking and he wants to fly, to be in the sky and soaring with his arms stretched out as long as they can and fingertips almost reaching the stars, the moon, but not quite."</p><p> </p><p>(basically it's mostly something that would be in the midst of a finished fic, Louis and zayn talking on a drive back from the shops, Louis comes home to see nick hanging with harry and is jealous and mad :( harry is confused)</p>
            </blockquote>





	he wants to fly (he's not a bird)

Louis’ listening to the radio announcer’s stupid voice, listening to him announce a fairly new song that he’s in love with and listening to the title before the track begins. It sounds like magic. He nods his head a little, sways his hips in the confinement of the choking seatbelt strapping him in and keeping his thoughts down.

And then. then Louis sees something in the sky, high, high, high above him and its flashing every colour you can think of but not brown, only bright colours; there’s a pulsing lilac then a pushing crimson then a violent lime then a rippling tangerine then a glaring gold that rips a hole in the air for a moment, blinding with its brightness, and then a blue mimicking the shade of the ocean beneath it all, drowning the world, beneath it all.

There’s a pressing urge in the pit of his belly, aching, quaking and he wants to fly, to be in the sky and soaring with his arms stretched out as long as they can and fingertips almost reaching the stars, the moon, but not quite. His lip quivers with need and his vision of the colours is blurring and his eyes burn and Louis doesn’t have any idea what’s happening.

Because, because one moment he’s next to Zayn in a shitty car in a ratty tank top and loose track pants and no shoes, the song ‘Of The Night’ drifting through the crackling speakers, and the next he wants to feel the wind under his arms, flooding his lungs and painting him the colour of the moon. Louis wants to feel the harsh winds whipping his hair the same way they're assaulting the ocean beneath him, causing his too long strands to look like waves frozen at their peaks. He wants to feel the air squeezing through his toes before he clenches them, curls them, in his excitement and the winds still manage to weave their way through the tiny cracks, wants to feel the bubbles of air pop between his fingers and wants to be able to whisk the clouds into a frenzy with the width of his palm and the tips of his fingers.

It’s everything he can't do.

The feeling is over in a moment, leaving Louis astounded and seeing the world with hazy edges. It’s stupid, but it really, _really_ , isn't. His hands aren’t shaking but he places them on his thighs heavily, moving them down to his knees before bringing them back up, fisting in the soft material.

Zayn flicks his eyes over to Louis, notices his clenched palms and a single tear by his eyelashes, and doesn’t comment on anything, mouthing the words to the song that hasn’t even reached the chorus yet.

Louis breathes softly through his nostrils, barely making a sound, his eyes between the skyline and the sea. His heart is beating rapidly in his chest, rattling stupidly against his ribcage, roaring his blood. Louis can feel his pulse in his fingertips so he uncurls his hands to drum them against his knees. They end up tapping along to the beat, perhaps a side effect of music in his blood; it’s not like he’s into the science of such things.

He opens his mouth to mumble, “’S a good song.”

Zayn’s ebony eyelashes flutter as he blinks, casting long shadows across his cheeks. He hums, nodding his head. “Yeah, man, Bastille are quite good. Hasn’t Harry got their latest album?”

Louis digs his fingernails into the fabric of his sweats. He tries to keep his tone light. “Yeah, he does. He played it in the flat when you and Perrie were out the other night.”

Zayn squints, almost glaring at Louis, but he isn't mad. Too light, then.

“Lou, mate, c’mon,” Zayn huffs, he’s so over this, “have you and him not kissed and made up then, yet?”

He doesn’t dignify Zayn with an answer. At least, Louis intends not to, then he’s stretching out his fingers and saying indignantly, “I asked him not to go out with Nick on the weekend and he did and you _know_ what Nick’s like, you’ve seen him more than I have. Boyfriend-burglaring bitch.”

The last sentence is muttered angrily, but Zayn hears anyway and he bursts out laughing, car swerving a little before he regains control. Louis scrunches his nose up, furrows his eyebrows and asks a little high-pitched, “What? It’s not like it doesn’t fit him.”

Zayn snorts into his sleeve; it hurts his throat at how hard he does so. “Louis, Lou, burglaring isn't even a word.” Then he’s laughing again, thankful he’s practically the only car on the road.

Louis frowns even deeper, stating defensively, “He loves Harry and he wants to get into his pants and he hates me because I did it first. I’m allowed to call him words that aren’t real.”

Zayn sobers up quickly, because he knows how bold and bright Louis can come off, but he also knows that underneath the shine Louis is vulnerable and self-conscious to a certain degree, though he’s only seen that side of him twice, once after his step-father left and then the time he thought Harry had left him the same way. Harry gets to see that side more than anyone.

He turns his head when they reach a traffic light. “Louis, Nick isn't going to steal Harry, okay? He’s a gross old man compared to you, he’s snobby and annoying and even though they're friends, Harry loves you and not that dick.”

“I’m snobby and annoying.”

Zayn coughs to hide his laugh, because Louis’ right. “Okay, but Nick’s all hipster and shit and—”

“Zayn!” Louis shouts, flailing an arm around to hit Zayn’s forehead. “Zayn, you’re supposed to say ‘Louis no you aren’t snobbish and annoying you’re fucking great’ and I’m supposed to go ‘Zayn why thank you for that but it’s not true and you know it’ and then we’re supposed to argue for ages until you win and I'm sat here quietly glowing under all the compliments you’ve unintentionally showered down on me!”

His voice goes deep and silly when he mimics (tries to) Zayn’s Bradford accent, and goes high-pitched and dumb when he mimics his own. It shows how much Louis isn't actually concerned Nick is going to take Harry and run. Zayn can't really help himself if he has a large coughing fit right after that, can he?

Louis’ face immediately is concerned, his eyebrows drawn together in worry, but then he sees the glint in Zayn’s eye as he ‘coughs’ at the road. Louis huffs, closes his eyes and puts his cheek against the cool glass of the window.

He thinks about that feeling, that feeling of want. It’s long gone but his stomach is pulling him toward the sea, the sky, still.

Taylor Swift’s song with Ed Sheeran comes on, and Louis sighs. They have to have lunch with Ed soon, really. He wonders if he’s going to bring Taylor. “D’you think Ed’s gonna bring Taylor when we meet up with him for lunch on Sunday?”

“She in the UK?”

Louis shrugs. “I don’t love her, why would I know where she is?”

Zayn shrugs too. “Ed’s not in love with her and he probably knows where she is. Whatever, text Harry, tell him you’re sorry and you love him, then ask if he knows.”

Louis nods, apparently over the burglar bitch issue, pulling out his phone and stating absentmindedly, “Is it weird? Like, is it weird that we’re friends with Ed, who is Ed Sheeran, who is friends with Taylor Swift?”

“Not really,” Zayn considers, “maybe we were supposed to be famous or summat and this is fate’s way of repaying us? By letting us be friends with famous people, I mean.”

“…Yeah. Harry says she’s flying in this morning, so she probably will be. He says why are we taking so long coming back from Tesco.” Louis blinks up at Zayn. “Why are we taking so long, Zayn?”

Zayn licks his lips. The car has apparently stopped moving, right outside their complex. Louis only just notices. Zayn smirks. “We’ve been sitting here for like, ten minutes, Louis.”

The only thing Louis cares about is, “Zayn, you fucker, the ice cream’s probably melted! Fuck you, come on we’ve ‘ta get it inside, prick!

Then he’s rushing to the backseat, moving his hands as though his limbs are twitching at high speeds through the grocery bags.

Zayn chuckles as he unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to help Louis.

**

In Harry and Louis’ flat, when the groceries are packed away and Zayn’s returned to his own flat across the hall, Louis refuses to acknowledge Harry. Because yes, he’d moved over the last issue, but currently Nick is lounging around on their sofa with two gorgeous, leggy blonds by his side, a bottle of beer cradled almost fucking delicately between two fingers, and what kind of _prat_ holds beer _delicately_?

Harry sighs while Louis scowls; Nick is a problem who isn't a problem who’ve they’ve already discussed multiple times who is just Harry’s friend.

He follows Louis into their bedroom, a question on his lips, though before he can say anything Louis is speaking, gentle and soft but with an edge, like someone’s pressed a knife to his throat.

“Harry, you know I don’t like Nick, yet you continuously bring him over and hang out with him and tell him when we’re going out so he can come, and I know I don’t own you, sweetheart, because I don’t, but it feels like maybe you’re purposely doing this? And I remember the Stan issue, and that is a lot like this in this instance.”

Harry’s mouth parts, offended, because the Stan issue involved coming home one night to see both Louis and Stan smashed to all hell and Stan trying to strip a giggling Louis, who was pushing Stan’s hands away like he couldn’t really be bothered stopping him.

“Hey,” he says, tone dark and unbearably confused, “you won’t find Nick taking off my shirt anytime soon, all right? He’s just, like, a friend; I’m sorry about him coming out with us but, like, he asks and I tell him without thinking and he’s so casual, it just, like, yeah, and he shows up. I don’t invite him, or whatever. We’re friends, he meets like, famous people, and he’s a good person to know.”

Louis scrubs a hand over his face. This is stupid, but he doesn’t like Nick. “Maybe, can you just send him off tonight? And tell him not to bring friends either, please. I don’t like perfume clinging to the sofa.”

“What about Pez?” Harry asks, not to be petulant but genuinely, because he didn’t know this was a problem and Perrie always wears perfume.

He shakes his head. “Pez wears Marc Jacobs, I like flowers.”

“How do you know Julie isn't wearing him?”

“The entire room smells like Katy Perry and Beyoncé, and not the recent scents either.”

Harry rolls his eyes and Louis throws up his hands.

He works in a pharmacy where they sell perfumes and he has to know the scents so if somebody asks for a specific type—say, fresh and floral—he has to be able to find scents they might want.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to contact me at seasideghoul.tumblr.com if you either want to chat or you want to use this? anything I post in this series is available for the taking and/or modifying if you like, just talk to me first. otherwise, thanks for getting to the end
> 
> (at the start how I described the colours, that actually happened to me and it was the oddest experience)


End file.
